


Break My Fall

by FaultyParagon



Series: RWBY Fair Game [32]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Consent Issues, Crow Qrow Branwen, Depressed Qrow Branwen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fairgame, Heartache, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Smut, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Poor Life Choices, Qrow Branwen Needs a Hug, Qrow Branwen-centric, Recovering Alcoholic Qrow, Recovery, Romance, Toxic Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Volume 7 (RWBY), and poetic blowjobs, fair game, i guess we're here, so if you wanted Qrow's journey to sobriety, this is basically a fusion of Corvus and touch (scintillas)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26822854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: It takes Qrow five days to wake up with Clover Ebi in his bed. It takes far longer for him to realize that this new Huntsman in his life is an ally. It takes him even longer to realize that maybe Qrow deserves it.-aka Fair Game developing their relationship as Qrow learns to cope with withdrawal, heal from his trauma, and stop hating himself- OR the mix ofCorvusandtouch (scintillas)that no one asked for.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen & Ruby Rose & Yang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: RWBY Fair Game [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392
Comments: 159
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is essentially tonally a mix of [Corvus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439404) and [touch (scintillas)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778680), so if you're a fan of those, you'll probably be into this. The narratives are completely different though, so here's yet another look at alcoholism recovery.
> 
> Edit: I've changed it to E following a request on Discord, thanks for helping me with that! I'm always baffled as to where to put my spice because it's simultaneously explicit and not.

He is warm.

Silky-soft cotton sheets slip upon his bare skin, and he is struck momentarily by the gentleness of it all, his mind still barely taking in the world around him. He is comfortable, his heartbeat calm, his skin cool and dry and cocooned by warmth in a way which he has not felt in years. Even the headache which has haunted him for the past twenty-four hours seems to have abated, leaving him tranquil and contented for the first time in… well, he has no memory of the last time he has felt this way, of the last time he has slept so well that he woke up truly feeling _whole._

Then, he shifts, and the illusion breaks.

His eyes snap open at the feeling of tense, sore muscles protesting at the motion, every inch of him sparking to life as his Aura comes automatically into play, healing exhausted muscle and bruised skin. He has barely a moment to pause before he throws the blankets off his chest, looking down only to see numerous bruises littering pale skin covered in more scars than unbroken flesh; the outlines of his wounds of past seem to glow in the sunlight streaming in through the window, causing him to squint against the sheer amount of _white_ reflecting light into his sensitive eyes. Even through his bleary vision, however, he can see how the bruises on his undamaged skin linger, tiny yet numerous, healing slowly thanks to his Aura’s concentration upon the ache in his bones.

_What the hell caused these?!_

His fingers run through his hair, and he grimaces at the greasy strands under his touch. Now that he is exposed to the chilly air of the room, he realizes just how gross he feels; he needs a shower and some food, and to figure out what exactly-

Finally, his eyes land upon the other side of the bed, and it all clicks into place.

Now exposed thanks to his careless throwing of the duvet, a strangled cry of horror slips past Qrow’s lips as he watches long brown lashes flutter slowly underneath thick brows, jade green eyes blinking up to look at him. As they focus upon Qrow, thin lips curve into a wide, lazy smile, a hoarse tenor murmuring, “Hey, you. Feeling okay?”

Qrow does not reciprocate any of the warmth carried within that voice. Instead, all he can do is frantically search his memory for what exactly has happened- for how in the world he has ended up in bed with Clover Ebi, his new Huntsman partner of only five days.

His brain finally supplies him with the truth, shame and anxiety and guilt rising up into his throat like vomit. He hadn’t even lasted twenty-four hours without his flask. He had caved and drank that night, and his body had grown pliant and willing and wanting, and Clover had found him and smiled like _that-_

And here they are.

_I’m fucking filth._

Without a word, Qrow stumbles out of bed, putting the pieces together. No wonder he feels disgusting.

_At least, with his luck, he’ll be okay after this._

Qrow tells himself that over and over again as he throws on his clothes and runs to his own quarters, leaving behind Clover’s shocked, protesting voice to echo in chambers which Qrow would gladly forget. By the time he enters the scalding spray from his own shower, washing away Clover's touch from his skin in tandem with his Aura, he almost believes it.


	2. Chapter 2

Ruby is beautiful, he realizes faintly.

Ruby Rose has grown up somehow in the blink of an eye, and all Qrow can do is bite his lip, bury his hands into his pockets, and hunch his shoulders, focusing upon the map before him. He cannot look at her- at her grace, her quiet, self-assured confidence, her poise and intelligence and cunning as she looks over the map projection and effortlessly explains how her team would be the most useful in this upcoming mission. She is succinct and clear, no lie within her words, and that strength makes her shine brighter than any holoscreen in this room.

She is his little niece, and yet… when has she become a Huntress? Where is the little girl he had once bounced on his knee, who he used to feed, who would light up every time he came home even though she could never pronounce his name?

…where is the little girl who _needed_ him to protect her?

For she does not need him now, he realizes. As she speaks, self-assured and true, the other Huntsmen and Huntresses in the room look to her not as a child, but as a leader. She knows her team’s skillsets, and she shall put them to use in the best way possible, and there is no way for Qrow to say it better himself.

Perhaps it is the pounding headache, the raw, digging knife edge slowly whittling away at his sanity that causes his eyes to grow blurry, filling with tears when he listens to her calmly explain their plan to breach a Grimm’s nest. He blinks them away, hiding a sniffle with a cough into his elbow, allowing his hair to hang far too low into his eyes to hide the image of Ruby from his eyes.

...if he drank, he wouldn’t feel this way. He knows this.

_I won’t do it._

He wants to. Everything aches.

It is not only Ruby, however, who causes him to shrink and shrivel within himself. On one side, she stands proud beyond measure. On his other side, however, is Clover, and Qrow cannot bear to look at the man whom James has so callously dubbed his _partner_. How can he, when even the briefest moments of eye contact that morning in the mess hall had been enough to send nausea crashing over him, phantom pains lingering within his bones, his heart thudding horribly in his chest as anxiety threatened to drown him from the inside out? Even now, as he stands in the darkened briefing room for captains and team leaders, his body is hyperaware of the man who stands but a few feet away from him, all built muscle and tan skin and knowing, cocky smiles.

He wants to cry at the thought. What sickens him even more, however, is the fact that he can feel Clover’s eyes lingering upon him- curious, betrayed, confused. Green seems to glow almost ethereally in the light of the holoscreens littering the room. Qrow hates that even when he looks away, his body and mind automatically fixate upon those goddamned _eyes_ that can see through everything, that have _seen everything-_

He has seen Qrow at his weakest barely three hours before. Qrow cannot afford to be weak. There is far too much at stake.

_The kids don’t need me to fight anymore, though._

He swallows dryly, sighing. His eyes feel dry, but they sting, too- a brief look into the reflective window nearby once the room lightens, screens fading now that their mission has been set, shows that his nose is red, eyelids puffy despite not having shed any tears at all.

A light touch on his shoulder grabs his attention. It is Clover, and Qrow has nowhere to look except for green, and it takes everything he has to choke down the bile shooting up into his throat at the very sight of confused eyes with all of their questions and their desires and their geniality and-

He remembers now when those eyes had been filled with lust for him.

Qrow turns around. “Let’s go.”

Clover does not touch him again. “Okay.”

And so, their mission begins.


	3. Chapter 3

They do not need to speak, and for that, Qrow is so grateful he could weep. His head aches enough as it is, tears springing to his eyes the moment they step outside into the bright Atlesian sunshine, the reflection off of fields of pure, unbroken white tundra stinging his eyes without mercy. He squints and grimaces, bloodshot vision making him dizzy and weary, and he digs his nails into his palms as he fights to keep his hand from flying up to his chest- to his empty vest pocket.

It is empty. He needs to learn to accept that. His flask is his burden no longer; and yet, the emptiness in his pocket weighs down on him heavier than amber liquid ever could.

But it is not as simple as that. By the time the airship arrives, he has witnessed Clover’s mouth open and close, open and close, open and close- working like clockwork without any of the gears, no concrete idea of what to actually say or how to say it springing forward when all he can do is watch Qrow in trepidation. Qrow detests the action, for although it is silent, his hypersensitive brain which needs to latch on to something, _anything,_ focuses so hard upon Clover’s actions that it is almost as if Qrow can _hear_ every movement, although they are all silent.

It is driving him mad.

Yet, he does not speak up. Guilt gnaws Qrow’s heart as he watches the movements out of the corner of his eye, for he can see the flush that grows upon Clover’s cheeks whenever they make eye contact, whether Clover realizes it or not. It is clear that Clover has not forgotten the night before, no matter how much Qrow wishes he would.

He needs to nip this in the bud. He cannot allow this to go any further.

Their duty during this upcoming mission shall be to stand guard at the base of the frozen lake; the southernmost post shall be the entranceway, but neither Qrow nor Clover’s Semblances shall do anyone any good underneath the frozen surface of the water, so they are lingering behind. It is a routine enough task- guard the entrance so that Grimm do not sneak up on those clearing out the actual nest- but that routine is deadly for Qrow; that routine provides opportunities to speak to Clover, after all.

They pass an eternity of silence between them once they are located at the entrance, each man standing guard at one side of the opening. Clover’s mouth continues its routine- open, close, open, close- until Qrow can no longer stand it, finally muttering, “You got something to say?”

“…why did you leave this morning?”

“None of your business.”

“I think it is,” Clover adds quietly, face tightly drawn. He no longer bothers to even remotely hide his mild distress, confusion and bitterness beginning to seep into every wrinkle. “Qrow, you don’t exactly jump on someone like that-“

“I didn’t do _shit,_ ” he hisses automatically. “Just stay away from me.”

Clover scoffs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the entranceway. Qrow looks away; in his uniform, with his hair slicked back and his chiseled face illuminated by the sunlight reflecting off the snow, Clover Ebi looks far too put together, far too self-assured. It is not fair for the younger to look so calm while Qrow feels two steps from keeling over in exhaustion. “You and I both know we can’t exactly avoid each other, Qrow.”

He snorts bitterly, staring at his loafers. They are still too new, too crisp; they chafe his feet slightly. He shall have to get better socks, he thinks.

“Qrow, don’t ignore me.”

He pauses to check his Scroll, but thankfully, Team RWBY’s Aura levels are still strong. Sighing, Qrow finally looks up. “Look. It was a mistake. Just forget it ever happened.” Before Clover can retort, he adds, “And you and I both know I wasn’t-“ and he recoils, for the word tastes just as sour in his mouth as it had been to vomit up the liquor responsible for this mess right before the briefing, “-I wasn’t in my right mind. And you still went for it. So now that I’m awake, and actually _thinking_ , just… no.”

To his utmost horror and surprise, Clover actually looks… disappointed. “…We were good together last night, you know. _I_ remember.”

So can Qrow. The trails carved by Clover’s fingertips the night before had begun to reappear in his sensory memory during the plane ride. The alcohol which had plied his body had not been enough to erase the fact that Clover had made him feel things he hadn’t felt in _years,_ his body succumbing, twisting and writhing and leaving him in a drunken stupor that was not entirely due to the alcohol. And now, his body longs for more.

His mind wants this all to disappear. “Fuck off, Ebi.”

Clover winces, turning his eyes back to scanning the horizon. “...fine.”

With that, the duo keep their eyes locked away from one another for the rest of their shift, the air between them more charged than if they had been guarding electric-Dust.

They may as well have been, Qrow realizes ruefully. One wrong move, and he does not know who will snap first- nor does he know how. He just knows that everything aches.

He wants to rest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter shall be a bit more of Corvus-style content, then after that, touch. Get ready y'all, it's about to get REAL

The mission is finished in absolute silence; the only time the duo communicates is to alert the other man of Grimm, but Qrow does not need the warnings. There is a grim satisfaction which blooms within his heart as he realizes in all honestly that his skills have not waned, even though his strength and composure has. Harbinger slices through the air without hesitation, the Sabyrs which try to sneak up on their post dissolving into rancid dust within the blink of an eye as he leaps into the fray before Clover has even extended his weapon. The other man stares at him almost mournfully, his usual cheer falling away to pensive silence, the slight clench of his jaw the only indication of his frustration.

Qrow does not care. Killing the Grimm is multipurpose; he can distract himself from the creeping, lingering headache that refuses to leave his skull, begging him to quench a thirst which the water bottle in his pack cannot satiate; he can focus on a task, reminding himself that he can still do _something_ well _,_ at least; and he can prove to Clover that he does not need this foolish partnership that James has set up, that he does not _need Clover._

It is a good thing, having that distraction. Moving his body, allowing adrenaline to course through his veins instead of liquor… it makes him simultaneously nauseous and giddy, but at the very least, he does not think of his flask. It is only in the idle moments when his fingers begin to itch, his throat growing thick, begging for lubrication. He shall hunt as many Grimm as it takes to ignore this feeling.

After all, this discomfort cannot last forever… right?

_…I sure hope so._

Clover does not infringe on the bubble which Qrow has so effortlessly erected around himself, providing the other man the space he needs. There is an odd look on his face- a mix of shame, of regret and frustration, of confusion and ignorance and baffled bitterness. He is confused. He is hurt.

_Does he even get what he’s done wrong?_

The thought brings bile up into Qrow’s throat. He swallows it down. He does not put Harbinger away, not even once.

It is only once they are back at the Academy that everything comes to a head, when Ruby approaches Qrow at the end of the briefing, her silvery eyes so full of pride and innocence that he cannot speak. She is just like her mother now, the wisdom shining in her visage surprisingly beyond her years as she quietly murmurs, “You threw away your flask, didn’t you, Qrow?”

He nods. He does not need her to know that there is an officer’s mess on base, that he still has access to liquor whenever he should please. He does not need her to know that he has continued to make mistakes- that he cannot live without making them.

He wishes he was better.

As she whispers, “I’m really proud of you, Uncle Qrow. Thank you,” Ruby speaks with such finality that he wants to weep, for she does not understand. She has seen him without his flask all week, yes; in her mind, he is clean. He is sober and he is ready to take back the life which liquor had robbed from him, and there is absolutely no way he can find the words to say that it simply does not _work like that._

She hugs him. There may be muscle and incredible strength on her frame, but she is still so small, so lovely, to Qrow. Her innocent trust is so misplaced.

Trust is such a rare commodity these days, though. How can he break hers?

_I won’t be able to help it._

His head aches, but his heart, even more so.

Ruby waves goodbye, teasing him and announcing that they’re having a video game tournament in the nearest common room to their guest quarters. “Bring your Scroll!” she calls as she leaves. He nods and smiles, his chuckles as false as can be, but her pride in his apparent health prevents him from offering any final words before she leaves the room.

Finally, it is only Qrow and Clover. He sighs, loping over to the door- he has reports to write, but no one has said anything about having to write them in the Huntsmen’s offices, so he shall put on comfortable clothes and crawl into bed and type the report on his Scroll. If James has an issue, he can simply message Qrow, although it’s not like Qrow cares enough to write things up to Atlas’ unnecessarily obtuse standards-

“Qrow, stay.”

Qrow freezes, a chill shooting down his back as he turns on his heel, looking at Clover in shock. The younger, who had been avoiding eye contact ever since their terse morning exchange, is regarding Qrow carefully. Qrow does not like that look; green eyes flash with an uncomfortable sense of _knowing_ as he watches Qrow. Gulping, Qrow replies, “Is that an order?”

“No.”

“You said it like it was a command. I’m not one of your men. I don’t serve under you.”

Strangely enough, a flush colours Clover’s cheeks. “Good. I don’t feel like dealing with power imbalances between us, anyways.”

Qrow shivers, stepping back. Those words are too layered, and he refuses to parse the meaning carried by heavy-lidded, weary eyes. Clover still stands at the front of the room by the main holoscreen projector; relief washes over Qrow as he looks at the four rows of chairs neatly spread between them, for he does not need to be close to the younger. Not when he looks like this.

Not when Clover looks like he is looking into Qrow’s heart. Qrow does not need Clover to look at him anymore.

“Look, man,” he growls, walking backwards towards the door, “I already told you. If it’s not for work, I don’t want anything to do-“

“What’s this about you ‘throwing away a flask’?”

His feet become glued to the ground in an instant, fear and anxiety spiking through him. “It’s nothing-“

“Qrow,” Clover murmurs, taking the center aisle between the chairs as he strides towards Qrow, “what was Ruby talking about?”

Qrow wants to leave. He does. And yet, when Clover finally is close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, his body betrays him, melting into the warm touch of Clover’s hand. Quietly, Clover says, his face as conflicted as it has been this entire day, “I… if you don’t want to talk about it, I’m not going to ask, okay?”

“Not like you had the fucking right to anyways-“

“And I’m sorry.”

Qrow pauses, finally looking into Clover’s face. There is no lie in his eyes. “I’m sorry about what happened. I should’ve said no, even if you said you wanted it.”

Just like that, the spell is broken and Qrow’s legs find strength to move away again. He walks back to the door, flinging away Clover’s hand. “Well,” he spits, putting distance between them, “why didn’t you?”

“I… I don’t know. I made a mistake.”

Those words echo behind Qrow’s back as he leaves. He does not look back to see Clover’s face as he says them, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally 2.6k so I split it, since I'm trying to keep chapters relatively short in this fic. This scene shall be resolved in the next chapter.

He cannot sleep.

It is painfully jarring, just how different his night is going now that he has sworn himself to sobriety once again. He can barely close his eyes for a moment before his brain begins to send signals begging for more, causing his heart to race, his skin to grow clammy, his joints to ache and his teeth to hurt and his mind to _scream,_ for all he wants is silence.

Why is it that sleeping in Clover’s bed had granted him a reprieve, but his own willpower cannot give him even a modicum of rest?

He hates it.

After hours of tossing and turning, of getting up and pacing around his frigid room, of making a cup of tea and washing his face for the nth time and drawing a bath so he could sit in something that might ease the dull ache slowly carving him out from the inside, Qrow gives up. He cannot remain in these quarters on his own, where four walls threaten to close in with no reprieve, no distraction.

His brain jumps back to the mission from earlier that day. If he had been able to distract himself by hunting Grimm…

Wordlessly, he throws on his clothes once again and opens up his window, wincing at the fresh blast of freezing Atlesian air which strikes his cheeks, immediately raising the hairs on the back of his neck, his damp arms covered in rising gooseflesh. He shivers, but does not move away, instead closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath.

It takes but a moment to transform. He has done it again and again over the past twenty-odd years, the action as natural as breathing; as long as he has his Aura, the familiar seed of extra magic embedded deep within his core, shining a brilliant pale green amidst a sea of red power, is always accessible.

His heart twinges as he locks onto that seed of magic, drawing it up and through his fingers, channeling it into every pore, every muscle, every follicle. This magic belongs to Ozpin.

And Ozpin has abandoned him. It feels almost dirty to still be relying on his power.

But there is no point in thinking on that now. All he needs is for his head to stop aching, for his heart to stop begging for solace. He just needs some quiet. So, he allows that magic to begin transforming him, compressing his body, tightening his muscles, hollowing out his bones, until he is a man no longer.

His voice always sounds strange to his reshaped ears, trilling and clucking, but the sounds of a corvid have become just as much a part of his identity as his own natural voice; the strangeness is not one to hate, for he knows that he shall always find solace soon- in flight. Without looking back, he leaps out of the window and spreads his wings, immediately sighing in relief as the air slides around the camber and glides swiftly over his long feathers, lifting him upwards. As the air hits the bristles around his face and the wind steals the breath from his lungs, Qrow no longer feels anything.

It is perfect.

So, he aims for height. Atop Atlas Academy, he shall survey the floating landscape. He shall find the best places to rest, the safest places to perch, the best winds which can ease his pain. It shall be hard at this dark hour, but he shall do his best. He shall fly high into the sky and use the cover of night to protect his secrets- his transformation, his shame, his heartache, his confusion, all of it- for in the sky, no one can rival him. No one can catch him in his regret when he flies.

At least, no one _should_ be able to catch him.

He is not alone when he alights atop one of the highest peaks his weary wings can find. For a moment, he believes to have found rest; it takes barely a second to realize that that is false, however, a slight shifting shadow enough to catch even his weak avian eyes. He freezes in place, glancing over to look at the source of the movement, his heart plummeting in his puffed up chest as he realizes that the person who sits upon the rooftop of this building is none other than Clover Ebi.

The man looks different now, dressed in civilian attire that is actually fitting for the freezing temperatures; Qrow shrinks back into himself as he takes in the image of the younger man dressed in boots and darker slacks and a warm sweater, perched in a nook of a window with a book opened upon his lap. His hair falls upon his forehead, his widows peak hidden by brown locks that cause him to look so much younger than his usual stoic self; however, the grimace on his face and the pensive set of his jaw do nothing to hide the frustration emanating from the man’s every pore.

_I need to leave._

His talons click against the railing upon which he stands, the sound echoing just loudly enough to grab the man’s attention. Qrow stiffens, praying that his dark plumage will allow him to blend into indigo skies, but after Clover’s eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat, it is clear that the man has caught him.

Qrow sighs as the man stands, the sound naught but a growling in his throat, a tiny whistle through his beak. He does not need to see this man- not now. He just wants a reprieve.

To his surprise, Clover does not approach him, merely taking a seat upon the rooftop a metre away from where Qrow sits. “Hey there,” the younger murmurs, his voice curious and calm as if trying not to startle the bird. “What’re you doing here, little guy?”

Qrow stares deadpan at Clover, his beak falling open. What is this gentleness? What is this softness?

Qrow’s heart twists bitterly in his chest. _Is this sweet act how you won me over last night, too?_

The mere thought of it brings the taste of bile and liquor into his throat. He squawks. Clover’s eyes brighten like a child’s, fascination and joy overtaking his features in a way that Qrow would have never even thought possible. The man immediately straightens up, waiting for Qrow to react, his grin growing so oddly sweet that Qrow almost allows himself to move closer.

He does not. He does not know for certain what ails the younger- he does not need to care, either. Clover is just another name to add to the list of mistakes which has long-since grown impossible to track in Qrow’s life.

Clover isn’t his first drunken regret. He just hopes that Clover is his last.

…his head no longer aches. Now, however, he is growing colder than ever, and there is no whiskey to warm his bones whilst he suffers the Atlesian chill, and Clover watches his every move, and Qrow is _tired._

He just wants to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

As Qrow turns to leave the otherwise-empty rooftop, however, the image of Clover’s distress does not leave his mind, the furrows between the man’s brows as he had sat pensively upon that sill before Qrow’s arrival still engrained behind thin eyelids.

_I should leave._

It is so much more complicated than that.

So, Qrow simply hunkers down upon the railing. The cold has yet to truly penetrate his feathers; he can afford to stay here a little longer, he thinks. His Semblance, normally dulled by the consumption of liquor, shall not begin attacking them in full-force for now, at least.

Seeing Clover’s joy makes Qrow realize something that knocks him off-balance; he has never seen a bird in Atlas before. It makes sense, but still… to think that his corvid form is actually conspicuous is bizarre. He is so used to being able to blend into the environment the moment he transforms into his avian form that the thought of actually _standing_ _out_ as a crow is oddly unsettling.

That is likely why when Clover murmurs gently, leaning his elbows onto raised knees, “You couldn’t sleep either, huh, little bird?” Qrow does not flee. What would the point be? As long as Clover does not reach out to him, it does not matter. Clover has absolutely no reason to ever assume that the corvid and Qrow are one and the same, so why run away and make himself more conspicuous?

He can afford time here. After all, as a crow, his head does not ache, and the darkness hovering over them both is likely more than enough to darken the colour of his unnaturally-crimson eyes; there is no reason for Clover to suspect a thing.

To Clover’s quiet question, Qrow merely clucks in agreement, watching Clover’s eyes crease fondly as he continues, “Me too, buddy. It’s been… it’s been a long day.”

Qrow’s heart begins to sink, unease filling the hollows of his bones. What in the world is the younger saying? He clicks, impatiently nodding his head, waiting for Clover to continue.

Green eyes seem to sparkle, understanding Qrow’s curiosity in all the wrong ways. “It’s just…” The man sighs heavily, leaning back on his palms as he looks up at the sky. “How do you apologize to someone when you mess up? Especially when they have absolutely no reason to ever trust you again?”

_He’s… is he talking about me?_

It does not take long for that fact to become clear. For some reason, Clover is more than happy to sit back, face aimed at the sky as words begin to tumble from his lips; he speaks of what had happened the night before, finally giving Qrow a clear picture of what had passed to allow Qrow entry to Clover’s bed the next morning.

Clover had found him, apparently, drinking in the officer’s mess. Alone. He had helped Qrow back to the Huntsmen’s barracks, ready to drop Qrow off in his room, but Qrow had forced his way inside Clover’s quarters and had propositioned Clover without ceasing; he had been inviting and alluring, preying on every bit of attraction Clover had apparently felt for the elder ever since the moment he had laid eyes upon Qrow Branwen while fighting Grimm in the streets of Mantle.

Clover does not share any details with the crow, but as he speaks his ears go bright pink, the colour spreading across his cheeks to the tip of his nose. None of it is from the cold as he speaks, that much is clear- Clover’s mind is too wrapped up by Qrow’s wanton desire the night before, when he had not been in the right state of mind. Despite what all appearances might dignify, the younger man seems to find relief in vomiting these words out to the bird, as if voicing this experience is helping him parse what has gone on over the past twenty-four hours- as if he has needed help understanding what happened, too.

The shame which lingers, etched in every line on his face, must not be easy to endure. A part of Qrow is vindicated. Another part of him understands, though- although he knows he should not feel this way, that same shame lingers upon his tongue, too.

Every once in a while, he looks back down, smiling in relief as if simply happy to find that the corvid is still there. Why wouldn’t Qrow be there, though? Why in the world would Qrow leave when he is hearing the truth in such a raw, unfiltered state? How could he ever look away when he feels like he is stuck in place, frozen, bearing witness to a train wreck to which he has no ability to stop?

How in the world can he tell Clover that the Huntsman he is professing his attraction for is in fact the bird seated in front of him?!

So, he listens. He listens and he watches and he waits as Clover’s expression falls in shame, the younger murmuring, “I should have realized, but… I just… I never even gave it a thought. He’s older than me, and he’s technically senior to me as a Huntsman- it didn’t even cross my mind that he was drunk, or that I shouldn’t-“

Before he can stop himself, Qrow squawks in protest, flying close enough to land upon Clover’s bent knee. Mustering up all his strength, he _screams_ in Clover’s face, putting in the feelings behind every single question which Qrow longs to ask the younger. Why would Clover go for it anyways? Doesn’t Clover judge him now? Does Clover think less of him, or… or think of him as _easy,_ or whatever other uptight thing Atlesians probably label anyone who doesn’t fit their mold?

Why is he still so stuck on Qrow, even though Qrow has made it clear that he does not want anything to do with Clover if it can be helped?

Clover winces at each cry, but his smile reappears as he leans forward, reaching out timidly with one hand. Qrow stills, watching the man carefully, ready to fly off at any moment. Has he been found out?

Yet, it is with such tender affection that thick, callused fingers reach up to stroke underneath Qrow’s chin, a sense of tentative desire to move further in Clover’s eyes.

Qrow trills in warning. Clover does not push.

For some reason, Qrow does not move away. Clover’s touch is just as soothing as it had been upon his bare skin the night before, if not more; Clover continues to run his fingers down Qrow’s throat, feathers smoothing downwards with every brushstroke, every touch soothing frazzled nerves and calming Qrow’s heartbeat more than his attempts to sleep ever could. Qrow finds himself leaning forward into that touch, settling down on Clover’s knee.

He does not feel safe with Clover Ebi as a man, he realizes grimly. It does not matter what his reasons were- mistakes were mistakes, and Qrow does not have any reason to trust Clover Ebi.

As a crow, however…

He hates how warm Clover’s touch feels upon his frigid feathers. It provides exactly the kind of reassurance he has been looking for all night- a sense of safety, a sense of peace.

What he hates more, though, is that despite the fact that Qrow is soon to leave, flying around the tall spires of the academy with as much haste as he can to escape the frigid, biting air of Atlas, he can still feel Clover’s fingers gently stroking his throat and collar and shoulders even after transforming back into a human. His touch does not go away.

And Qrow sleeps better for it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a pretty terrible day, so here's a meh chapter to mirror the meh in my soul. Woot.
> 
> Let me know if you're reading along! I could use the pick-me-up.

“What the-“

Qrow does not allow Jaune to finish his sentence, pure instinct guiding him to reach forward and yank the young man’s collar backwards. The wall which Jaune had been standing beside crumbles a mere heartbeat later, the cracks left after their scuffle with the Grimm clearly having done their damage.

Harriet blinks at the crumbled wall in this empty, abandoned Dust processing facility, cocking her head to the side as she surveys the damage, an uneasy frown growing upon her lips. The Ace Operative mutters, “That damage shouldn’t have been enough for the entire foundation to be affected…”

As Jaune casts Qrow a warbling smile in thanks, clearly shaken by the fact that he would have been covered in rubble had Qrow not lent his aid, Clover does not hesitate to lift a hand up to his earpiece and announce across their shared channels, “There may be more structural damage in this facility than we thought. Take care as you proceed.”

Qrow’s footsteps slow to a halt, guilt rocking him to the very core. Silently, he waves Clover over rather than proceeding with their team. The younger’s eyes widen in alarm as the rest of their squad proceeds, Jaune included. “What is it?” Clover murmurs as he comes over to the elder, thick brows furrowed in wary concern.

He stops over a metre away from Qrow, though. Qrow’s heart both aches and glows at the sight of Clover’s trepidation. The words the younger had spoken to the crow had not been a lie; the guilt which Clover bears over what he has done to Qrow is not mere lip-service, and Clover is struggling to find a firm foothold in this mess they have found themselves in, too.

The mere thought of that one-sided conversation is enough to ignite Qrow’s face, his ears burning to the touch. It has been two days since his accidental midnight rendezvous with Clover Ebi atop Atlas Academy, listening to the younger rattle on about his sorrow in regards to the new Huntsman he has so ignorantly wronged. Two days, and Qrow still does not know how to face Clover- nor does Clover know how to face Qrow, it seems, the younger man’s stance impatient and uncomfortable.

Now that time has passed since he had first awoken in Clover’s bed, Qrow still feels wary of the younger. Yet, two days has been more than enough time to reflect upon the absurdity of their situation; to live one’s whole life in Atlas Academy surrounded by rules and rank, where seniority and position are the ultimate factors of one’s worth, the thought of saying _no_ to a senior or more experienced officer probably never would have crossed Clover’s mind, especially if the task given to him was favourable to his own interests.

Fucking Qrow, apparently, certainly had been.

James trains his soldiers too well, it seems. They’ve forgotten how to use their reason when faced with a command.

The thought makes him laugh, but the taste upon his tongue is sour, acrid. A few years earlier, and he might’ve taken that as a compliment- he was so attractive that he could even defile the head of James’ elite unit. Sleeping around when drunk wasn’t exactly something foreign to him, after all- it is only since the Fall that he has kept his bed cold. If he had seduced Clover before then, though, it would’ve been a joke; one he would have brought up at the most inopportune time when talking Oz and Glynda-

With a heavy sigh, Qrow says, “I should… I should go wait outside.”

“Why?”

Gritting his teeth, Qrow points at the crumbled wall, then back at himself.

To his surprise, Clover throws his head back and chuckles, shoulders shaking in amusement. “What are you _talking_ about, Qrow?” he asks lightly, propping one hand upon his hip. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases at the comment, the sound of his laughter ringing through the hallway warmly, raising the hairs upon the back of his neck- feathers yearning to be touched by that sound.

Qrow shoves the thought away. It was two nights- two nights with Clover’s touch. Yes, it had helped him sleep, but he does not need more. He can do this alone, without Clover.

Completely unaware of the reason behind all of Qrow’s distraction, Clover gestures with his other hand towards the wall. “If it was your Semblance that did that, then why didn’t the entire mine go down around us back during that first mission together?”

The answer to that question, of course, rests upon the tip of Qrow’s tongue. _My drinking isn’t numbing my Semblance. My Aura isn’t inhibited right now._ After all, Qrow has managed to last a few days without consuming anything, and the results are clear; his Aura is practically nonexistent, he’s exhausted, and he is not ready to focus further upon the mission. However, the alcohol which has dampened the effects of his misfortune for the past twenty years are beginning to fade, and the results are clear.

People are going to get hurt, and it won’t be just him.

The taste upon his tongue turns to ash- chalky, bitter. The only thing keeping him going is adrenaline and the fierce desire to not allow any of the children to get hurt; his visions swims, Clover’s face blurring in and out of focus as he struggles to try and keep himself upright.

He cannot admit to these things, though. Weakness is not allowed in Atlas.

_Clover isn’t cold, though._

Chewing on the inside of his mouth alleviates some of the dizziness, adding only pain to the roster, but amidst the headache which has been his constant companion for days the stinging in his cheek is inconsequential. When he is ready, he takes in a deep breath and tries his best to straighten up, to show more confidence than he feels. “I should wait outside,” he says, voice only wobbling a little bit.

Clover walks past Qrow, clapping the elder’s shoulder as he passes. “We need your help in _here,_ Qrow,” Clover says quietly. “I… if it’s because of me-“

“No,” Qrow sighs, shaking his head. “It’s not- it’s-“

The expression on Clover’s face proves that he does not believe a word which Qrow says, guilt settling into the lines around Clover’s mouth as if they have become comfortable there, the set in his jaw and the tension in his eyes almost… suited to him. That burden had not existed upon Clover’s features before Qrow’s arrival to Atlas, Qrow realizes.

Hesitantly, Clover nods, then turns back to follow the others down into the abandoned facility. “I’d appreciate it if you watch my back, Qrow,” he says without meeting Qrow’s gaze. “I could do with a reliable partner on this mission… if you’re okay with me, after it all.”

Before he knows what he is doing, Qrow raises a hand, reaching out for the younger’s back. Clover is too far away, his broad shoulders moving in time with his tall, confident gait, a swagger to his steps that Qrow almost recognizes in his own past now shadowed by a sense of shame which hangs heavily over Clover’s figure.

Clover expects nothing from him, he realizes. He is simply allowing the pieces to fall where they may.

Qrow gulps. If that is the case, then this game has never been fair to begin with. Clover was always set to win.

His feet carry him towards Clover, his hand grabbing gently onto the younger’s shoulder before he can stop himself. Clover’s face instantly flushes at his touch, the younger man freezing mid-step.

“I’ll cover your back,” he says, squeezing firmly muscle, shoving aside his dizziness and fatigue to focus solely upon Clover’s reaction.

The way Clover’s face explodes in a brilliant smile, the green of his eyes disappearing behind puffy, curved eyelids, is shocking, the quiet, restrained trepidation the younger had been trying to hide melting away instantly.

“…Thank you, Qrow,” Clover breathes.

Qrow’s heart seizes. He walks ahead. It’s just the lack of alcohol, he tells himself- just the lack of alcohol, and not that Clover Ebi’s smile still makes Qrow feel far safer than it should. Clover is just a dog of Atlas, after all- a dog that doesn’t understand its own limits or boundaries, following only its routines taught by its master.

As they meet up with the others, however, Qrow cannot help but wonder if he could train it. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck won’t settle, and his hand where he has touched Clover remains warm, the sensation lasting through the rest of the mission, providing one point of clarity amidst all of the pain and weariness haunting every step. The world spins, but that warmth is steady.

By the end of the mission, his body almost yearns for that warmth more than it does his flask.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "write shorter chapters" I said, "it'll be efficient" I said
> 
> And here's another one. Idk why my brain is really onboard with this fic these days. ~~now if only it would let me finish my other works which are almost finished smh~~

He does not move. He does not dare to, for he cannot be safe here. There is only one thought which pervades his mind, causing his eyes to dart back and forth, paranoia growing with each racing heartbeat, clammy palms gripping his armchairs so tightly that he cannot feel his fingertips.

 _What the_ fuck _is that noise?_

Whatever it is- the tapping, clicking, brushing that is filling his ears, the distant sirens when the sky remains unlit by the lights of emergency vehicles, the cawing of birds of which there are none- embeds itself into Qrow’s brain, and he has never been more terrified in his _life._ These little sounds, creeping around his mind and crawling underneath his nails like an itch that is impossible to scratch, has rung through his mind each night after he had decided to not drink, but it is the first time he is experiencing them so wholly.

Perhaps he should have gone to see Ruby, Yang and their friends after all. Maybe the distraction would’ve saved him from this nightmare. He had been so focused after their mission on staying sober that night that he had turned down the invitation, promising to simply go to his room and get some rest, but this report has taken so long; the words onscreen are mixing together, almost to the point where he wonders if alcohol’s sway is the only thing that would finally allow them to make sense again in this jumbled world.

This is the first time he has not crumbled when hearing these sounds, not gone to the officer’s mess to replace the flask he has given up. The tiny piece of his brain which has not succumbed to fear understands that these are all just hallucinations. As a reward for this strength, though, he sits alone in the dark, heel tapping upon the floor erratically, the sharp tapping only adding to the cacophony of silent noise echoing unbearably loud in his brain, leaving his temples covered in slick sweat and body trembling, aching, longing.

And to top it all off, he is _freezing._ No matter how much he increases the heating of the room, he still cannot warm himself up.

 _I can’t go,_ he thinks forlornly as he finally lifts his gaze up to look at the door. _I can’t go to the mess- I can’t give in, I-_

For the first time, he realizes that he is not actually in his quarters. He straightens up in his seat, for he had thought he had already left the Huntsmen’s office; is he so disoriented that he cannot even remember where he is?

 _The report isn’t finished,_ he realizes, making out more blank boxes at the bottom of the form. Glancing over at the holoscreen still blaring information at him, he winces, the light emanating from the screen penetrating deep into his skull with its jarring neon glow. The sun has long since set, and due to his relative stillness, the motion-controlled lights must have turned off long before. “Fuck, it’s late,” he groans aloud, reaching over to turn off the monitor. His body aches in protest at the movement, but he needs to go to bed; the next morning, he has time off, and he needs whatever scraps of sleep he can get to ease this ache that refuses to subside.

Perhaps tonight he shall try to find another perch as a crow. The pain and confusion had lessened in his corvid form. Perhaps that shall be his ticket to some peace before lunch tomorrow with Ruby and Yang.

Before he can move, however, the lights of the office suddenly flicker on, driving another wedge of pain through his skull. “Turn it off!” he growls, covering his eyes immediately with a hand.

It is Clover’s voice which rings through the otherwise-empty office as the lights turn back off. “Qrow! I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Yeah, well, I am,” he mumbles, grimacing as heavy footfalls approach him.

He can feel Clover’s presence behind him without even looking, the younger peering over his shoulder to check out the holoscreen. “Qrow,” he murmurs softly, “you can finish this up tomorrow. It’s late.”

“Doesn’t Jimmy want things done as soon as possible?”

“James,” Clover corrects, his tone mild but firm. “And it’s okay. You don’t look well.”

 _Fucking understatement,_ Qrow says to himself, massaging his temples. The cadence of Clover’s footsteps have now joined the screaming, percussive orchestra in his mind, and he is _losing it._ “I’ll get out of here soon, just- just let me be.”

“Are you okay, Qrow?” Clover’s voice is hesitant, but the concern is clear as day. “If you need anything…”

“I’m fine.” _I don’t need anything. Not from you._ He means it- he just needs some sleep, some quiet, some warmth.

Clover lays a hand on his shoulder, reaching out with the other to tap the screen. He saves the progress on Qrow’s report and turns off the holoscreen, offering with a wry, yet tense smile, “You can do this tomorrow. C’mon. Let’s get you up.”

Qrow cannot respond, for his eyes are locked onto the hand on his shoulder.

From the moment Clover’s touch had landed upon him, the sounds have stopped. It is quiet.

Noticing Qrow’s shocked gaze, Clover lifts up his hand and takes a step back, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll- I’ll head out first. Don’t worry-“

Before Qrow can stop himself, he is upon his feet, looking at Clover properly. The door leading into the office is still ajar, the light from the hallway spilling into the darkened room, bathing Clover’s strong, sturdy silhouette in a warm white glow; the tips of his hair which have fallen out of his normal slicked-back style shimmer almost red against the light, the definitions in his bare arms even more pronounced in the heavy shadow.

Qrow gulps. _All of those things you need can come from Clover,_ his traitorous mind offers.

_But he used me-_

_He didn’t know any better. He’s a dog of Atlas._ The same words which have been ringing through his head all day grow even stronger, even more deadly, even more _convincing. You can train him. He can help._

Clover turns to leave, but Qrow jogs forward, long, trembling finger grabbing hold of Clover’s forearm. “Hey. Stop.”

Half of him screams to stop it, to let go, to run past Clover Ebi and get to his quarters as fast as he possibly can; those voices quiet down immediately the moment he touches Clover’s arm, for Clover is so _warm_ that Qrow wants to sob, his flesh passing heat through Qrow’s shivering body so easily that even his most adamant resistance crumbles.

Clover’s ears are red, but the panic and discomfort on his face is clear. “Can I help you with something?” he asks stiffly. “If you need something, just let me know, but I think I should-”

“You like me, huh, boy scout?”

Clover’s eyes pop open, wide in disbelief. Whether it is for the moniker or the sudden assertion, Qrow does not know. “I’m sorry, what-“

“You like me.”

The flush on his face deepens, the younger averting his gaze. “I- I should go,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t be here after what happened the other night-“

Qrow yanks on the younger’s arm, drawing him closer, stepping into it so that his lips are a hairsbreadth away from Clover’s. He is thankful it is dark; Clover cannot see what a sorry state Qrow is in as his body leans instinctively forward, so desperate to leech off the younger’s heat that he can barely restrain himself. “I’m sober now,” he says, shoving down his horror and shame and frustration, allowing his need to take hold of him. “If you want-“

Panic becomes more pronounced upon Clover’s features, illuminated by the light of the hallway. “Qrow, I-“

“Make it up to me, Clover.”

The words are foreign upon his lips. A few years earlier, this kind of teasing would have been easy, naught more than a game; now, however, he almost wants to vomit as he speaks, for things have changed far too much as of late for him to feel remotely okay with the fact that he is manipulating this soldier so badly that Clover’s hand is now trembling more than his own.

_He thinks of me as his senior._

Who is taking advantage of who in this scenario?

Qrow does not want to think about it.

Clover’s eyes search Qrow’s face; for what, Qrow doesn’t know. Whatever it is, he finds it, though, for he nods, slow and unsure, perfectly straight teeth biting down on a thin lip as he steps backwards towards the door, fingers lacing with Qrow’s, eyes locked upon the elder as he silently begins to guide Qrow down the hallway. Their footsteps ring out upon porcelain louder than the ticking and clicking ever could.

And that night, as Qrow watches Clover Ebi fall to his knees as he worships Qrow, submitting under Qrow’s words and Qrow’s desires and Qrow’s touch, the guilt and discomfort and shame which have become Qrow’s constant companions as of late are finally drowned out by pleasure and want, the intensity of green, fascinated eyes watching him through heavy lids, and the sound of his own name escaping thin lips in a keening tenor.

Eventually, there is no room for the noise echoing in his head that night. Qrow sleeps, and he is warm. The strong arms wrapped around his body, holding him tight as if he is the dearest thing in the world, make sure of that.


	9. Chapter 9

When he awakens, his heart is at peace. His head does not pound, his body does not ache, and his eyes open with an ease he has not felt for months. There is a contentedness that lingers in the pit of his stomach even as the light ceases to blind him, his eyes adjusting to instead find the sunlight illuminating the pristine quarters of Clover Ebi perfectly. Crimson eyes trace lazily over a neat desk in the corner of the room, a singular sweater draped over the back of the rolling chair tucked underneath it; Clover’s Scroll sits upon a small coffee table surrounded by two chairs, the ensemble placed by floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded by gauzy curtains, but not a cup is to be seen. The kitchenette looks immaculate, not a crumb out of place, and he can see the polished bathroom through the open door, the morning sunlight reflected off of white tile and porcelain.

Everything about Clover’s quarters is put together, clean. Healthy. Orderly.

Grimacing at the pain in his hips, Qrow rolls over, heart seizing in his chest as he catches sight of the immaculate face in front of him. Clover still sleeps. Not a hint of strain shows up between thick, dark brows, tan skin almost rosy in the frigid morning air that not even heat generators can alleviate. His thin, wide mouth is curved into a faint smile, long lashes laying on dark circles that Qrow has never really noticed before, but now can see in full view thanks to Clover’s vulnerability. His arms still rest around Qrow’s torso, one ankle locking around Qrow’s calf.

Clover is so, so warm, the fluffy blankets draped over them paling in comparison to the heat emanating from every inch of bared skin pressed against his own.

And Qrow has never felt more disgusting in his life.

_I really did it. I really slept with him._

The nausea which roils in his gut only intensifies as he recalls vividly just how tenderly Clover had held him the night before. There had been no lie in Clover’s actions- only pure, unrelenting want, those emerald eyes so full of unabashed desire as he submitted yet again, so different from the strong, confident leader who normally strides down Atlesian halls-

Qrow extricates himself from Clover’s grasp as stealthily as possible. His clothes lay in front of the bathroom door; as he hobbles over, his Aura sparking to life to alleviate some of his aches, he comes into view of the mirror above the sink. What he sees makes him sick.

In broad daylight, his arms are toned, but spindly; his battered chest, which used to be built and strong, is hollow, his ribs showing through pale skin stretched too thin between scar after scar. The divots of his hips are not sexy as much as they are frail, showcasing just how little flesh, how little _strength,_ resides in his body.

Since when had he become like this? Since when has he been so _weak?_

The image stings to look at, but the sight of his face is what makes all of the ease and warmth that had soothed his heart all night disappear in an instant, for the face staring back at him through messy, ruffled grey-streak hair bears so much guilt that Qrow can already taste the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks.

He has used Clover, and his heart hates him for it.

Yet, with the way Clover had given in so quickly- with the way that Clover’s touch had eased Qrow’s pain _so easily_ \- Qrow knows that he will be coming back to Clover. The temporary relief is worth it, he thinks, ignoring the bile rising up into his throat. He needs relief from his cravings, from his heartache- otherwise, he will go mad. If strong, built arms are what he needs, then he shall use them as long as Clover allows.

Silently, he slips into his rumpled clothes, wincing at the movement. Then, he goes to the open window, willing Ozpin’s magic to course through his veins. The other Ace Ops have rooms in this wing of the academy, and he will not risk being caught amidst his sins.

Before he leaps out of the window and into the brisk morning air, allowing it to lift up his wings and carry him away, however, he hops back for just a breath, taking a moment to look at the man still innocently asleep in the bed. Clover shifts, exposing a firm, muscled chest and sculpted biceps; it is in such stark contrast to Qrow’s willowy form, where his bones feel so hollow that sometimes he wonders who is heavier- the bird or the man.

Either way, he does not want to break.

So, he leaves behind the man in his slumber, ignoring the fact that he already knows just how heartbroken Clover will be when he opens his eyes at last.

_A dog of Atlas. One of James’ men. He’s just a soldier._

He shudders, but does not turn back.


	10. Chapter 10

Qrow has memorized every pore and divot in his paper coffee cup by the time the briefing comes to an end, not daring even once to lift his gaze to the front of the room. It is bad enough that Clover’s voice is so resonant, each syllable ringing through his ears as the Ace Ops’ leader speaks authoritatively while he assigns missions to the awaiting audience; every breath sends Qrow back to the night before, and by the time they are dismissed, his empty cup has holes punctured in the sides from where his nails grip on far too tightly in an attempt to distract himself from the truth. He does not need to see the figure of the man who had embraced him so relentlessly the night before; he does not need to remember his want, his desire, his shame.

It is both a relief and a curse that his mission is naught but a patrol followed by paperwork. The children have been struggling to figure out exactly how to perform these tasks to Atlas’ rigour, so he and Clover have been tasked with cleaning up the mess left behind in threads of half-finished forms. These tasks for him are mindless, albeit annoying; he does not need to use any real brainpower, but they are enough that his body and mind shall remained preoccupied, and for that, he is grateful. He has enough on his mind as of late.

However, the moment he finds himself waving goodbye to Ruby as she, Penny, Harriet and Marrow head off to the loading docks for a supply run, Qrow feels his heart sinking into the soles of his feet, taking a beating with every step forward. The silence is palpable- not due to any tension in his heart towards the other man, but due to the fact that Clover’s eyes fall guiltily every time Qrow glances his way. There is no reason for Clover to feel guilty about any of this; his apologies have been plentiful, both in his words and in his actions, and while the memory of that first night puts a disgusting taste in his mouth, he has come to terms with what has happened. Hating Clover will not change the past.

It also won’t change the fact that the only thing that seems to sate the unquenchable thirst in his throat is Clover Ebi.

Finally, Clover breaks the tension that has been held taut between them, clearing his throat and attempting to bear an air of lightness. It does not work. “You weren’t there this morning.”

“Are you upset about it?”

A part of Qrow begs for Clover to reject him, to say that of course it does not matter, that he has no ill feelings towards the elder. Clover never reacts the way he expects him to, though. “…No,” he murmurs, just as Qrow had hoped. Yet, his eyes scream the opposite, and judging by the way Clover takes in a deep breath and attempts to pull on his usual wide, unaffected smile only to fail spectacularly, Qrow knows that his words are just a lie.

Quietly, Qrow adds, “I’m coming back tonight, if… if that’s alright.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait up for you.”

The earnestness in Clover’s voice makes Qrow dizzy.

The rest of the day is spent in near silence, the duo only exchanging words to finish their work faster. It is a good thing they are efficient, too; near the end of their patrol, a storm warning is issued in Atlas for that night. It shall not be an easy evening for anyone, it seems, for soon enough the orders for pilots to ground their vehicles and for external support to return to their bases begin to roll into their Scrolls.

They manage to get back to Atlas before the docks are shut down properly, and by nightfall, everything is squared away. Qrow is quick to head to the door for the pressure with the oncoming storm only adds to the ache in his skull- although Clover does not allow him to leave before confirming hesitantly, “I’ll… I’ll see you soon?”

“…yeah.”

And yet, the moment he is alone in his chambers, Qrow’s head begins to pound even more. It is always in the evenings that his cravings are worse, he finds; his body is far too used to him imbibing enough liquor to kill a lesser man each night after missions, and now that he is going without, his body’s expectations cause his heart to race far more than during the day. It quickly escalates from a simple throbbing in his skull to a pounding headache, the sensation begging him to give in, to take one little drop-

Before he knows it, he is a bird, desperate to escape the sensation. He just wants to fly it off- to be free, to soar on the wind and to feel less like he is naught but a miserable pile of mistakes.

Flight is quickly deemed impossible, however; with the storm brewing, the violent downbursts shear at his wings, nearly wrenching them out of their sockets. Only a few strokes out of his window and he already knows that there is no way he can possibly climb to the highest peaks of Atlas tonight, for the wind gusts far too violently to even think, the sound of whistling through the tall structures filling the campus screaming in his ears-

Suddenly, a gust knocks him completely off-balance, flipping him upside down, head over talons. His body cannot right itself, the entire world spinning in a blur of steel-grey skies and pristine white architecture. He cannot save himself, the cold and the biting wind sapping away his strength.

The next thing he knows, there is a collision- there is pain wracking his body- there is a bitterness in his mouth as he realizes just how foolish he had been. He cannot tell where he has landed, aside from the fact that the base of his wings ache terribly and that his head is spinning and that he is _not okay,_ but wherever he is, it is out of the wind, and for that, he is grateful.

Fate is never kind to him, though. It takes but a few seconds for the balcony door behind him to pop open, a familiar voice cutting through the screams of the storm. “ _Brothers_ , it’s that bird! Is it injured?”

Before Qrow can protest, strong, large hands lift him up easily, clutching him with surprising tenderness. He struggles for but a breath, clawing at Clover’s hands and arms with his talons, but everything aches far too much in his tiny body for him to be able to put enough force in to properly escape. _Let me go- I’m not a fucking_ pet-

But the relief granted immediately as he is brought inside, away from the cutting winds and biting cold, is breathtaking. He clicks and coos, his muscles slowly relaxing as warmth begins to heat up hollow bones. Even hotter than the heat generator in the room, however, is Clover himself, his large hands burning even through his gloves as he gently presses Qrow’s body, taking note under his breath where Qrow reacts in pain; then, he cradles Qrow until the bird no longer protests due to discomfort, then continues on his way. Each touch is hesitant and unsure, and Qrow faintly realizes that this must be the first time he has ever held a creature like this.

Clutching Qrow carefully to his chest, Clover finishes up what he was doing in the office (for of _course_ he had managed to crash smack into the window of the Ace Operatives’ office) with one hand and returns back to his own quarters, his gentle, yet steady, grip on Qrow’s body preventing the corvid from attempting egress. Or perhaps it is that Qrow has simply given up, for Clover’s heat sinks into his body in a way that is so soothing that it seems to ease even the pain in his wing.

However, as Clover takes a seat by his coffee table, Qrow begins to grow uneasy. Clover remains upright in his seat, his fingers stroking the back of the bird gently, eyes shining with curiosity and expectation; those eyes do not focus solely upon the bird, though. They flit between the bird’s red eyes and the door, an energy thrumming underneath his rosy skin which proves his excitement.

 _He wants to show me this crow,_ Qrow realizes, his heart sinking into his feet. _He’s waiting for_ me _._

But Qrow cannot leave, cannot escape the younger’s grasp. What is he supposed to do? _Maybe once he falls asleep, I can hop out and transform- he’ll let me go, and-_

Clover does not let him go that night, though. His grip on the bird remains steady and strong, his eyes hopping back and forth between the bird and the door, waiting for the elder Huntsman to appear even as hours pass. When Qrow never arrives, however, Clover’s ministrations upon the bird’s feathers grow more persistent upon Qrow’s tiny form until he is lulled to sleep even through the discomfort and panic and guilt.

Halfway through the night, Qrow awakens due to Clover shifting in his seat, the bird opening its eyes only to see a look of strain and weary acceptance upon the younger’s face as he looks out of the window. When Qrow trills softly to capture his attention, green eyes soften in response, that normally-confident tenor now husky with sleep-deprivation as he murmurs, “Shh, buddy. Sleep.”

He trills again, confused.

Clover’s smile which had emerged automatically upon meeting the corvid’s red cracks a little bit. “I just- I was going to meet with someone tonight,” he breathes. “He never came. I…”

_I wanted him to be here._

The unspoken words hang so heavy in the air that Qrow’s breath is clogged in his beak, forcing the corvid to eventually bury its face against Clover’s chest to push away the tension. Clover’s smell has become familiar at this point, cutting through Qrow’s anxiety effortlessly.

It is easy to ignore what is going on when he is so wholly surrounded by Clover, after all.

When Qrow awakens the next morning, he tests out his aching wing, finds that it is strong enough to carry him home, and flies out the open window into the calm morning air yet again, leaving Clover all alone. This time, however, he does pause to look back. The younger man’s eyelids are puffy and red, his lower lip bruised from anxious biting, his arms poised so perfectly to hold another.

The guilt lancing through his heart cannot be eased by staying as a corvid, unlike his headache. So, he flies off, knowing fully that he shall act as if he is none the wiser- that he does not know that Clover Ebi waited nearly all night to embrace Qrow Branwen, and not the crow.

While he changes into a fresh set of clothes before the morning briefing, Qrow can only shiver as one thought rings around in his head, repeating over and over again like a cursed mantra meant to crush his every last hope.

_What would he do if he knew the truth about me?_

Qrow does not want to know.


	11. Chapter 11

The gift bag is completely unexpected; there are no major holidays approaching, nor is his birthday anywhere near. However, that does not stop Ruby from watching him expectantly, bouncing on her toes, barely-contained glee oozing from every single pore.

He cannot help but smile, clumsy as it may be, in response to her unabashed excitement. “What’s the occasion, kiddo?” he asks, putting down his paper cup on the floor in favour of grabbing onto the handle of the gift. It is heavier than expected and stuffed to the brim with glittering tissue.

She beams, “You’ve been looking a little better lately, Uncle Qrow, so I thought you might like this!”

Confused, he pulls out little tufts of colourful pink tissue paper and tosses them beside his chair until he unearths the gift proper. It is but a simple, sleek grey coffee mug, the cream porcelain interior labeled upon the inner lip in a serif font, “World’s Best Uncle”. Underneath the mug is a box of ginger honey lemon tea from a tea shop he just knows must have been a recommendation from Weiss; there is no way a gift this muted would have ever come from Ruby alone.

The words on the mug crawl under his skin, digging into his very bones. He has not had anything to drink in a few days, yes, but if she knew what he was doing to achieve this-

Guilt rises up like vomit in his throat, like ash into the sky. He tamps it all down, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “I’m not exactly a tea drinker, Ruby.”

She shrugs, a glint of pride in her eyes. “Never too late to become one,” she replies simply. He winces. He knows what she means to say, to do. It’s never too late to start drinking tea- to replace the void left in him.

It’s a sweet sentiment. He just wishes he knew how to live up to her hopes for him. “You think you could make us a cup?” he asks, holding out the bag to her.

Rolling her eyes, she says, “But what if I want my own?”

He flicks her forehead with his forefinger. “You can share mine. C’mon.”

Grinning as if nothing in the world could possibly be going wrong, Ruby skips off to the back of the briefing room where she begins to bother Ren while trying to figure out which dispenser is for hot water and which is for coffee. He envies her wholeheartedly for the energy in her steps; although he can forget his fatigue on the battlefield, in the safety of Atlas Academy, there is no respite to be found for him.

Just as Ruby returns with his new cup filled to the brim with scalding tea (he takes a moment to scold her lightly, because it’s honestly a miracle she hadn’t spilled any and burned her hands with how high she has filled the cup) a familiar figure walks in. Qrow winces on instinct, focusing solely upon the fragrant cup of tea in his hands; it is soothing, the warm air replacing the eternal chill which seeps into his bones mercilessly in Atlas. He wraps his fingers around the mug, allowing the heat to enter his fingertips, his palms, his heart.

The thought of Clover’s touch comes to mind. He pushes it away. The guilt of what he had done- unintentional, but negative nonetheless- threatens to break him.

However, he cannot stare down at his hands forever, for the briefing begins, Clover’s strong voice resonating through the room. He keeps his eyes locked on the list of missions, looking down or raising the steaming mug to his face each time the handsome silhouette walks in front of the large holoscreen at the front of the room. It is too hot to drink; if he were to open his mouth wide, he knows that the sparks of his Aura would be visible as they healed the burned skin of his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He does not stop sipping the tea, though. It is the perfect distraction- pain with little relief.

When Ruby gathers up her teammates, she comes over to take a sip from his mug now that it has had time to cool. Immediately, her nose scrunches. “Not sweet enough,” she complains, eliciting a laugh from Qrow.

Then, he sits up. He does not know why he does it- yet, seeing her innocent, eternally-sweet expressions lights something within him. Whatever it is, it is warm and gentle- and before he realizes it, he leans forward and presses a kiss to her hair.

She pauses, worry and flushed embarrassment taking over her features. “Are you okay, Uncle Qrow?”

He ruffles her hair again, silently fighting back his own embarrassment for that rare moment of explicit affection. “Better with the tea, kiddo. Thanks.”

Ruby and Yang head out with their team, leaving him behind. He is in no hurry, though- his day shall consist of paperwork until the evening patrol. As long as he can retain his sanity until the end of that sentry check around Mantle’s wall, he will be able to say that he had gone another day sober.

 _Brothers,_ how he wishes he was not so acutely aware of how many days it has been. Hurriedly, he drinks from his mug again. It still burns slightly, but he does not care.

As usual, Clover is partnered up with him for the day. “You never came,” the younger murmurs at last, almost an hour into their silent work session in the Ace Ops’ office.

Qrow sighs, glancing upwards. The office looks far different in the daylight, a far cry from what it had been the night before during the storm; without the shadows cast by towering cumulonimbus clouds and the flashes of lightning arcing through the sky, the office is nothing but another uptight, pristine chamber in the Academy.

Yet, Qrow finds himself almost missing the room from the night before. Clover’s arms had been so unbearably warm, after all.

“I… was caught up in something,” Qrow replies after a moment. “Did you stay up?”

“No,” Clover says without missing a beat. “It’s fine.”

Qrow pauses, looking up at the younger. The bags under his eyes are clear proof that he is lying; even without being in his unique position, Qrow would have been able to deduce that Clover was hiding something. As it is, however, Qrow can only turn his gaze back to his cup, drinking more tea hurriedly to bite back the words of apology and confusion and frustration which threaten to all jumble together inside his mouth. The tea is now cold, though, and nothing is enough to satiate Qrow’s thirst.

He keeps the mug in the Ace Ops’ office that evening before he heads to bed alone. He is scared to think of what may fill it up if he keeps any container in his quarters.

Thankfully, the day passes without incident. After their evening patrol- silent, tense, uncomfortable- Qrow manages to find Team JNPR training in the practice room. Although he does not usually interact much with these children when his nieces are not present, that night, he does not hesitate to step back into the role of a professor, the mantle which he had abandoned all those years before. By the time he is aware of it, hours have flown by and it is time for bed, and not a drop of liquor has passed his lips.

The next evening finds him back in that same office, filling in reports. It is almost laughable how his skills are being put to use, but he does not complain. This is James’ ship to captain, whether he likes it or not. As long as their goals align, he shall do as told.

To his surprise, he spots something peculiar as he goes to make himself another cup of tea; where he had previously stashed Ruby’s gift, there is now an assortment of options, all of which seem to have sprung up overnight. _The only person who knows I put my stuff in here is…_

When Clover enters the room for a brief moment later on, all he says is, “I’ll see you later.”

Clover’s eyes widen, then relax, his same genial smile plastering itself across his face in a nearly laughable attempt at calm. “Of course.”

Clover does not acknowledge his tiny act of kindness. Qrow almost wishes he had; then, he could shut down whatever budding hope is causing this behaviour in Clover. As it is, he just feels hollow.

The tea does not taste as good after that exchange. He drinks it anyways. It is better than the alternative, anyways.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this chapter is too explicit and thus I need to move the fic to an E rating, let me know, I have terrible judgement when it comes to these things
> 
> enjoy the _touch_ influence of spicy content with no words because my one braincell giggles when i write spice

For the first time while sleeping in Clover’s bed, he awakens in the middle of the night. It is not due to strain nor due to stress, however; his eyes flutter open, finding himself perfectly contented with the warmth the younger man provides, the blankets protecting him from all his woes. The pillow underneath his head is soft, comfortable, the moon’s beams falling above his eyes, not disturbing his slumber. The heartbeat thumping in a broad chest, exposed skin covering it creamy and pure despite the scars littering the expanse, is soothing, the perfect lullaby to drown out the ache which haunts him.

By any normal measure, Qrow should be at peace.

However, Qrow’s heart still leaps into his chest as he comes into awareness once more, for Clover is not asleep by his side. His eyes are closed, his face the image of serenity, but there is movement under the covers; large, callused hands trace circles upon Qrow’s waist, a thick, sturdy leg thrown over his own weighing heavily against his eternally-cold frame shifting ever-so-slightly, hooking around Qrow, drawing him close. He can feel the rise and fall of Clover’s chest, the breath hitting Qrow’s fingertips which curl by his face nowhere near as slow and steady as one who is locked in slumber. Even in the darkness, he can see the way the younger man’s lips quirk into a small, contented smile every few seconds, the expression always accompanied by just the barest increase in pressure from those fingers against Qrow’s skin- as if the younger is assuring himself, over and over and over again, that Qrow is still here. That Qrow has not left.

More noticeable than anything, however, is the heat pressing against him; yet, the younger makes no move to alleviate himself of this desire, instead contenting himself to drawing Qrow close, pressing skin against skin, clearly treasuring this intimacy without daring to go further.

He has already gone too far once. Whether or not he holds back because of a desire to atone, or out of a desire to protect Qrow, Qrow does not know.

Qrow makes a move, shifting in place. To his absolute horror, those eyes remain closed, but the hand which caresses Qrow’s bare waist rises to wrap around him, stroking the back of Qrow’s head with such tenderness that Qrow almost weeps. “Shh,” Clover breathes groggily, his contented smile never leaving his lips. “I’ve got you.”

His heart leaps into his throat, alongside bile and disgust and shock and shame. _Brothers, he really-_

No. No, Qrow shall not allow himself to even think the words; he does not dare. The ache which surges into his chest is far too complicated a feeling to deal with now, in the midst of night. All he knows for certain is that when he reaches up his hand, laying his fingertips lightly upon Clover’s high cheekbone, the flush which spreads across the bridge of his nose to the tips of his ears is so prominent that even in shadow, he can see it all.

Qrow shifts his leg, then freezes as he feels Clover jolt, his desire clear as day. Qrow bites his lip; he pauses, he turns to glance over his shoulder at the digital clock upon the bedside table. They have time.

So, he takes a deep breath- takes the plunge.

It is tentative. It is careful. Still, he reaches down anyways, swallowing down his shame and regret and instead focusing on the trail of hair he has become accustomed to, trailing down a stocky abdomen until Clover shudders, his eyes snapping open, all pretenses of sleeping falling away in his shock.

He never gives anything to Clover, the nights he allows himself to fall into the younger’s bed. He never reciprocates, never acts; he simply uses the younger, taking and taking and taking in such a fashion that leaves him dizzy and breathless, vulnerable and keening. He always expects Clover to push him away when his hands guide Clover’s mouth, Clover’s hands, Clover’s flesh, Clover’s core, to where Qrow desires, and yet, Clover never does, accepting everything Qrow does as if it is only natural, submitting under the elder’s selfish touch until he is spent- until he can gather Qrow up in his arms and whisper _goodnight_ into his hair.

This is the first time Qrow has ever reached out for the purposes of purely pleasuring the younger. It feels wrong- forbidden, somehow. As if he is breaching the unspoken contract by which they abide. Clover does not pull away, however, simply sinking deeper into the pillow, brow creasing lightly in worry, in distrustful hope.

Qrow moves closer, his hands dancing across Clover’s body, fingers lacing through curls, heat warming his fingertips. He does not know what shall be the younger’s undoing. He has never tried to figure it out. So, the experimentation begins, trying again and again until Clover’s eyes roll back, a guttural cry spilling from his lips muffled into the pillow with teeth bared. Qrow feels Clover release, feels the heat fall, weak and spent, lifting his hands out of the covers to grab a tissue, to wipe off the evidence.

 _I’m sorry,_ he longs to whisper against Clover’s skin. He does not know why he has done this. He should not be egging the younger on; frustrated at himself, he rolls over, back facing the younger.

Without hesitation, Clover plants a kiss on the nape of his neck, then nestles against Qrow’s back. “Thank you, Qrow,” he whispers, exhaustion pulling him back into deadened slumber within a few minutes from the moment his arms wrap around Qrow’s waist once again. His smile is breathtaking, as if Qrow has given him a reward for all of his hard work at last- as if following Qrow’s orders has finally paid off in this most pathetic, meaningless of ways.

Horror washes over Qrow. Clover truly is a better subordinate than he thought.

_I shouldn’t be doing this._

And yet, he knows that he shall come back again, for the contentment which seeps into his bones from Clover’s touch cannot be understated. He does not feel yearning for liquor this night. He does not feel broken, thirsty, empty.

Once the younger is asleep, Qrow picks up his things. He gets dressed, holding his breath lest the chilly steam formed from his mouth will alert the younger. And then, he is gone.

The heat does not disappear from his hands for the rest of the night. He almost wishes it would, so it might carry away the guilt, too.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who just remembered this story existssss
> 
> Also, I just started a silly little fancast, **The Good Beans** , where I ramble about media that makes me happy. Check out episode 1 [here!](https://anchor.fm/faulty-paragon/episodes/The-Good-Beans-Episode-1---Kingdom-Hearts-2-Eternal-Summer-Vacation-enjorh) I'm thinking of making an AA-themed episode soon, so check this pilot out and let me know what you think :)
> 
> Let me know what you think of this fic in the comments!

He knows in his head that Clover Ebi is the leader of the Ace Operatives, and that he is, by everyone’s standards, a man to be feared and respected as one of the highest-ranking officers in the Atlesian military. He leads with a confidence (and arrogance) that can only come from years of experience, from success after success, from having Lady Luck holding the door open for him with her foot every step of the way.

And yet, Qrow can feel nothing but _pity_ whenever he looks at Clover Ebi. He has long since learned to look past the younger’s mask of professionalism; Clover’s emotions are constantly laid bare upon his face the moment one can notice the downwards quirk of his lip, the tension in his neck as he silently grits his teeth, the slight furrow in his brow which never seems to fade when he’s anxious, even as he puts on a performative smile for his subordinates-

Qrow knows. It is easy for him to notice these things, he supposes. After all, every time Clover looks at Qrow, all of those signs of distress seem to fade away, the micro-expression more than enough to prove just how much the elder occupies his thoughts.

It is too dangerous to spend more time with him, Qrow decides. So, he decides to stop. He can stay strong on his own; he never needed anyone else before, and he doesn’t need anyone now.

_Back then, I had liquor-_

He’s going to be fine, he thinks. His fingers still reach for an empty breast pocket, though.

So, he stays away from Clover Ebi. He ignores the younger when Clover tries to broach the subject of that night, nor does he react when Clover makes him a fresh cup of tea while Qrow works on filing reports late into the night. He does not even acknowledge the younger man’s offers to spend the night together, contenting himself to stalking back to his own bedroom, empty and alone, where he has made a little nest of blankets and extra clothes in which he can transform into a corvid and bury himself.

It is not enough to numb his headaches, his craving, his _inadequacy-_ but Brothers be damned, he is going to _try._

This silence between him and Clover, which extends onto missions and briefings and mealtimes, finally breaks after one particular mission. He ignores the telltale signs- the crackling of the air, the brewing, leaden storm clouds overhead, the hair rising upon his nape and the backs of his exposed arms. He thinks it shall be fine, for all they must do is clear out some Grimm; there are many beasts in this den, so the Ace Ops, Qrow, and Team RWBY are all going together whilst Team JNPR goes on the daily supply run, guarding the trucks. However, there is no greater mission, no thing to protect, no Dust supplies or water veins or anything to be cautious of- just a horde of Grimm and his blade.

Harbinger has never let him down, and he knows it shall not do so now. Mindless hunting has always been easiest for him.

Unfortunately, Qrow has never been good at remembering all the small details. Glynda has always said it was the liquor dulling his memory; perhaps she has been right all this time. There is no other way to explain the reason for which he so casually, so _callously,_ agrees to accompany Team RWBY when they are splitting up their forces for a pincer strike.

There is no alcohol in his veins. His body aches, his Aura refuses to regenerate, and his world spins each time he moves too quickly.

And there is _nothing_ to dull his Semblance.

The ramifications of this lead to only one conclusion, right at the end of the mission as the last Teryx lets out its final scream of protest before his scythe reaps it into ashes as it deserves.

Ruby is hurt. It is a completely avoidable accident; merely the breaking of ice, the crumbling of the land upon which she stands. She should have been able to jump away in time, but at that very moment, coincidence, luck, fate- whatever is guiding her future deigns it time to drain her of her Aura completely.

She is blue, icy, frozen to the touch, by the time they manage to pull her out of the water.

He should’ve stayed away.

 _I did this,_ he thinks as he carries her into the emergency room. _I should’ve realized my luck would-_

That night, he ensures that for a long, long time, his Semblance shall be quite dull indeed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually did remember that this fic exists, which is fun
> 
> Anyone still reading along? I'm never really sure with my FG content.

His eyes blink open to darkness. He swallows dryly before instantly regretting that action; his entire body seems to revolt at this mere, slight movement, vomit rushing up his burning esophagus without hesitation. He shudders, shifting to the side, clinging to the edge of the mattress and plunging his head over empty space so he can empty out the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

Except, he doesn’t. He can feel warm liquid bouncing up, splashing onto his face; dizzy eyes finally focus in on what lies in front of him.

He gasps, shame and confusion and horror creeping up into his lungs. Clover’s lap is splattered with his vomit, the formerly-sleeping man blinking blearily at him from his seat in a chair pulled up by the bed. Qrow’s eyes snap open as he finally takes in his surroundings, realizing at last that he is not in his own quarters, but in the pristine barracks of Clover.

The younger seems shocked at the mess spewed across himself, but he does not react for a moment. When he finally gets his senses about himself, he merely reaches to the side, pulling out a tissue from the box upon his bedside and reaching out. With an uncomfortable level of care, Clover extends his hand, wiping off the saliva and bile still staining Qrow’s lips.

Qrow wants to weep as he flinches against Clover’s methodical movements, every touch burning his skin with an intensity that he cannot blame on the headache, on the pain, on the emptiness. It is not the touch which horrifies him, but the resignation in Clover’s eyes.

When the younger man finally speaks, holding the hem of his soaked, ruined shirt away from his skin with uncomfortable, tentative fingers, he does not address the mess. He does not address the evidence of Qrow’s sins- albeit unknowingly, considering his lack of awareness to Qrow’s plight- nor does he address the sopping mess left upon his figure, upon the floor.

“Ruby is alright,” Clover murmurs, voice echoing through the air with a gentle cadence that finally knocks Qrow off the edge, plummeting him into a depth of overwhelmed, giddy, tingling relief. “She woke up a while ago. When I got the call, I checked on her, and then came here…” His brow furrows, mouth twisting in a mix of pity and disgust and confusion.

Now that his gut is empty, the tremors set in. Qrow’s head rushes as he sits up, each motion simultaneously too quick and too slow as the word moves in blurry speed, leaving his body behind to push through molasses-like air; his neck cranes upward, seeking the sunlight, seeking _anything_ that can warm his suddenly-clammy skin, every hair on the back of his neck raising with gooseflesh and shame and languid exhaustion as that relief courses through his veins like a river.

Clover is back at his side in an instant. Qrow holds up a trembling hand, halting the other man’s steps. “Wait,” he growls.

“Qrow, I can-“

“ _Wait, soldier,_ ” he spits, halfway biting his tongue in his dizzy stupor. Too much is happening all at once; one by one, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing visibly as his foot connects with an empty can. The sound of aluminum crashing into the opposite wall at the impact sends reverberations through his eardrums, splitting his head wide open from the inside out, the pain sharp enough to cause him to see white.

To his surprise- and to his morbid horror- Clover listens. The younger man’s posture freezes awkwardly mid-step before the man comes to a standstill, feet together, straightening his shoulders as if on instinct.

Qrow almost laughs. The sound comes out as thick, phlegm-choked coughing instead. _He is really a dog of Atlas, huh?_ he thinks. There is no joy in this realization.

With Clover watching, Qrow stands slowly, each step excruciating as he makes his way around his sweat-soaked bed towards the bathroom. In the back of his mind, he knows he should be allowing Clover to go first.

He doesn’t.

Washing up is quick. Efficient. His over-sensitive body feels strangely numb far too quickly as he stands underneath a pulsing showerhead, causing his dizziness to mount; so, he stumbles out, dries himself off, and gets dressed in the last set of clothes he still has untouched by filth and blood and vomit. _I need to do laundry,_ he thinks mildly.

The thought causes laughter to finally bubble through his clogged, hoarse throat. What the hell is he thinking, while Ruby is still in the medical ward? What the _fuck_ has he been doing this entire time-

_She’s awake._

He needs to go to her.

Without a word, he steps out of the bathroom, strides long and with purpose. He hears Clover stand before he sees him, before he turns to the door and finds a younger man with a bare torso- probably to escape the undeniable stench wafting through this room, aided only marginally by the now-opened window- standing firm by the table near the entrance to his quarters. “You feeling alright there, Qrow?” Clover asks, a hint of desperation lacing his usual confident affectation.

“Where’s Ruby?”

Clover’s brow knits tighter together, eyes filling with something akin to grief before he hardens, jaw tightening, back straightening up. With strength and resolve and reassurance, he smiles, just as he would to his men, and announces, “She’s in the Wing E. She’s out of the ICU for now; I’ve told them you’re on the way.”

For a moment, Qrow is fine. He nods, accustomed to this man, to this figure who idolizes and _wants_ for him so badly that he has clearly allowed himself to be debased in such a manner, in such a way that Qrow does not even wish to _acknowledge_ he is capable of. His mind screams, begs, pleads for him to apologize, to straighten up, to acknowledge the mess he has made- to take responsibility that the root of all of this pain and disgusting inconvenience is Qrow himself. There is no one else to blame. He knows this.

Before he can say a word, however, he is stricken by another sight. Behind Clover is the tall, full-length mirror hanging off the door of the ajar wardrobe. In its reflection, he can see Clover’s strong, muscled back- all tanned skin covering coiled muscle, built after years of good health and training and shelter. Very few scars litter that broad expanse despite the amount of time working in the Atlesian military. Qrow’s lip curls into a frown automatically as he registers that fact- Clover’s never had a reason to push away his Semblance, after all. It has clear kept him safe.

That is not what knocks Qrow so vastly off-kilter, though; what catches his eye is none other than Qrow himself, all pale skin and haggard bone jutting out, cheekbones starkly contrasting with dark circles and haggard, lifeless eyes, his clothes- which had been fairly well tailored to his form upon his arrival on Atlas- hanging far more loosely than could ever be considered flattering.

He is a shell. Clover is not.

It is not fair.

_I did this to myself._

Ruby is waiting.

Pressing his lips together, he does not acknowledge Clover any further, turning on his heel and breaking into a jog down the hall despite the dizziness and agony. He does not need to look at Clover; he can feel the accusatory heartbreak, along with the gutting _worry,_ lingering upon his own fragile, broken back all the way to his destination well enough.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it againnn
> 
> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

“Uncle Qrow?”

He allows his tears to fall. There is no way he can possibly hide his absolute relief, his gratitude, his _shame_ which is finally being given the chance to heal now that his little niece is looking at him once again. Her eyes blink blearily at him, slow and languid as she takes in her surroundings; his footsteps thundering into her room, much to the chagrin of the nearby medical staff, had managed to awaken the weary girl with a start, so she is still confused and disoriented.

He places a trembling hand onto her forehead, brushing her hair off her skin, reaching down to place a soft kiss between her brows. It is a rare display of affection, he knows; he does not care, however, for the fact that warmth meets his lips rather than the icy skin that they had dragged out of the freezing depths is enough for him. Rather than mirroring his relief, however, Ruby’s brow creases in response, nose wrinkling in distaste. Confusion flashes across her face for the briefest moment before anger takes over, that anger slowly simmering in silver eyes rapidly growing in awareness, in cognizance, in _disgust._

“You’ve been drinking.”

Those three words are more powerful than the swipe of any Grimm’s claws, any monster’s jaws, any attack Harbinger could ever bestow upon an enemy. Each syllable sends a chill down his spine, the disbelief and abhorrence her voice stealing the breath from his lungs. He cannot breathe, he cannot think- all he can do is look blankly at her. What can he possibly say? What can he possibly do? It is not as if he can possibly deny it, after all. He cannot pretend that he is guiltless, that he has managed to keep his promise with her-

But does she need to look so disappointed in him?

Swallowing thickly, he fights down the urge to heave again, clearing his throat enough to mumble out, “I… I’ve been trying, kiddo. I was worried about you yesterday.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Don’t… please don’t do that.” When he frowns, confused, she can only look away as she explains, “Use me as an excuse.”

“How do you look worse than Ruby right now? Did something-”

Qrow nearly jumps out of his chair as Yang’s cold, stern voice cuts into the room, the girl entering with two cups of steaming liquid in her hands. She quickly walks over to the other side of Ruby’s bed and hands the girl what appears to be some tea before taking a seat upon the awaiting stool; Qrow takes the cup for Ruby, as the young girl is still on her back, clearly too exhausted to properly move. As he places the tea onto the nightstand, he glances over to his elder niece, trying to cast her a gentle smile. Her eyes scan over him, the concern and confusion quickly falling away to become cold, more detached than disappointed. She knows.

He recoils instantly from the frigidity of that gaze. Quietly, he mutters, eyes falling to his loosely-curled hands, his palms ashy and dry and callused and frail. “It’s just that-“

“No, Qrow. No.”

His gaze snaps up. Both Ruby and Yang bare such impassive expressions; Brothers, how he _longs_ to explain, to tell them what not drinking is doing to him, to explain what the churning in his gut is like when he drinks and when he doesn’t-

When his Semblance hurts those he loves, just like he always knew it could.

Before he can even begin to formulate his thoughts into coherent speech, Ruby begins to struggle in her bed. Instantly, Yang is there, assisting the younger to sit up in her bed; after letting out a long, weary breath at the effort, Ruby murmurs, “You should get some rest, Qrow. You look worse than I do.”

“Smell worse, too,” Yang adds, the hint of scathing contempt in her exhausted voice more than enough to sting.

His brows feel permanently knitted together. He sniffs his vest- it smells clean enough, but judging by the exhaustion in the girls’ eyes, he knows that his previous night’s adventure must be lingering upon his skin, rushing through his veins itself, permeating within him. The thought raises gooseflesh upon his bare forearms; how could one bad night cause everything to crumble? How can the evidence be so easy to spot? The girls had been _so proud_ of him when they had thought he had gone completely clean; but as much as he wants to protest, in the face of these expressions…

They look at him exactly the way they had after the incident at Brunswick Farm- a mix of weary disappointment, distrust-

And resignation. _He’ll never be better,_ their eyes say heavily.

He is going to be sick. It is not from the alcohol.

He shakes as he stands up, skinny knees knocking together lightly as he straightens his curled spine. He catches his reflection in the tea at Ruby’s bedside, the image within stark; the light which streams in through the hospital blinds, filling the room in a pleasant glow now that morning has awoken the world at last, leaving Qrow with nowhere to hide his shame, his gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes casting more shadows than not.

He looks like a ghost. Is that why Ruby is looking at him like that- like she is looking at a _memory?_

“I’ll watch over her,” Yang says quietly, reaching over to grab Ruby’s hand. Unlike when faced with Qrow, Ruby smiles softly at Yang, instinctively squeezing her older sister’s hand. The older girl adds, “You can get some rest, Qrow.”

Something in her words catches him off-guard. Smiling awkwardly, he attempts, “What, no ‘uncle’ anymore?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Ruby looks away. Yang mutters, “I don’t- you… with you showing up like _this_?”

Qrow does not remember leaving that room. The next thing he knows, he is two hallways over, arms pumping as he builds up speed as fast as his aching limbs and bleeding heart can manage, dizzy nausea and choked sobs blocking the air from entering lungs so empty they want to collapse; then, he allows that seed of magic without him to take over, and he is flying, wings carrying his light body into the icy, biting wind.

 _Ruby is okay,_ he tells himself over and over again. It is almost a mantra, a salve which he pours over the gaping wound in his heart; perhaps if he repeats it enough, the fact that they are _ashamed_ of his actions might disappear. If he moves his wings fast enough- if he allows all thoughts to rush from his mind as the oxygen fades, thoughts turning into nothing but instinct and static and the icy cold of the wind, perhaps he shall be able to erase the past twenty-four hours.

His exhaustion strikes him out of the blue, a dizzying realization that he truly has nothing left in his system. The muscles in his wings seize, his entire body suddenly aching as he fights to stay aloft. Quickly, he scans the open windows nearest to him. All he needs is one perch, some shelter from this wind-

What he finds is an open window that is all too familiar. With the pain in his rapidly-weakening body growing, however, he has little choice; so, he tucks his wings in close and dives, angling himself so that he may slow down and alight atop the one windowsill which is open to the chambers within despite the cold.

Clover’s face is starkly different from his nieces’ expression upon seeing him; as Qrow hops into the Ace Operative’s quarters, croaking weakly, all he sees are wide smiles and emerald creased into crescent moons, lined with affection and joy. Without hesitation, the younger man puts down his Scroll upon the coffee table and holds out a hand, barely-concealed excitement bubbling behind his eyes. “Hey there, buddy,” he coos with an almost child-like eagerness towards the corvid. “You needed a place to stay?”

If Qrow were human, he would weep. As it is, he simply warbles out a croaking agreement- then, despite all of his former hesitation to interact with the younger man fully as a crow, he hops clumsily over to Clover, ignoring his hand to go straight to Clover’s lap. The soldier is not upset; in fact, his delighted expression cannot be contained, large hands immediately wrapping around the bird as he soothes, “Hey, it’s alright, little crow.”

Qrow stiffens upon hearing his name, then relaxes. He doesn’t know. Clover doesn’t know anything.

_That’s why he’s alright with this. With you._

He sucks in a breath. In this form, his sense of smell is severely diminished; even so, he can detect the detergent and soap filling the air, fresh linens upon the bed emanating the same sense of _clean_ that Clover’s skin carries.

He closes his eyes, leaning into this touch. The man holding him gently pulls the bird close, his searing touch tender and careful as a callused thumb massages his head, his cheeks, and the base of his wings. Qrow merely clucks when Clover checks in, the man chuckling at each response, the sense of unadulterated peace which fills the crisp morning air painfully tender.

It tastes like guilt- guilt and bile in his mouth. Although he had brushed his teeth, the taste never really went away after he awoke that morning. Now, it feels like it has become even worse, only aggravated when Clover murmurs, “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you. I’ve got luck on my side, after all.”

_…I wish I could say the same._

As much as he wants to, he does not sleep in this comfortable embrace. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Ruby’s disappointment. He does not think he shall be able to sleep for a while yet.

At least his crutch is not turning him away. Clover’s touch brings some respite at least. After the events of that morning, Qrow knows in his heart beyond a doubt that he does not deserve it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished planning out the entire fic. This will likely be the next FG work I finish up.

He would have thought that the process of detoxifying, of putting away the bottle for those first few days, would become easier the more he does it. As it turns out, it decidedly does _not_ become easier; even though he knows that his body shall ache, his head will spin, his heart pounding in his chest even as he sits at rest and his stomach constantly trying to turn itself inside out in search of what it craves most, all that knowledge does is build up the fear in his chest, a fear which gnaws and bites and devours him little by little until each action is accompanied by trembling fingers, whether he is in pain or not.

He forces himself to go through it despite the anguish. There is little choice, after all; the image of Ruby and Yang’s disappointed expressions refuses to leave his mind, following him even into his fitful dreams. All he wants is for those expressions to be replaced once again with the same pride they had both worn upon his original declaration that he would be quitting.

 _All of this,_ he thinks in horror to himself as he crawls into the briefing room two days after his conversation with his nieces- two days after his last drink, _for what? To go back to the start?_

He tries to banish that thought the best he can. The idea that his grief-fueled lapse has done nothing but bring him back to square one fills him with more heartache that he can bear. So, he looks away. _One day at a time._

It is painful still, though. He has but two solaces during this time: the first comes in the form of Weiss, surprisingly enough. After his conversation with Ruby and Yang, the two girls ask that he does not return until Ruby is released. “You need to figure out a plan, Qrow,” Yang murmurs coldly, her exhaustion and anger working in tandem to cause her Semblance to flare up, those formerly-loving lilac eyes flickering between red rage and pure, hollow weariness. “I… I’m used to be disappointed. Don’t do this to Ruby, too.”

Those words almost cause him to crumble on the spot as the girl closes the hospital room door behind her, the only thing preventing him from collapsing being the hand which instinctively reaches out to grip onto the wall, to support himself with the sudden light-headedness following Yang’s words.

After dinner that day, however, Weiss appears at his table on her way to the mess hall line-up. “Yang’s busy eating right now, and Ruby’s sleeping,” she says quietly as she waves Blake to go ahead without her. “If you want to visit Ruby, now’s the time. She’s doing much better, though.”

Qrow’s mouth is dry as he hesitantly asks, “…why are you saying that? I’m guessing you know how the girls feel right now-“

“Ruby told us, yeah,” Weiss affirms, her icy gaze boring holes into his skull. Qrow can almost feel the chill in his teeth, gooseflesh rising at the mere thought, his hollow bones trapping no heat within his body.

To his surprise, Weiss’ eyes soften slightly as she looks at his weary, pitiful form. “You… you’re doing more than my mom’s ever done,” she explains after a moment, the words rushing out slightly, as if they shall be halted the moment she puts a second thought into this confession. “That’s worth something. Even if it’s not going well. It’s something.”

Qrow’s instinct, strangely enough, is to spit out a scathing remark. He knows well of Willow Schnee- who doesn’t know of the former Huntress who has given everything up for the sake of her bottle, holed away from her family and her company and her duty in favour of drinking herself away? _They stopped trying to be subtle about it years ago,_ he thinks as his mind flashes back to a million and one tabloid articles which had sensationalized the discord in the Schnee household many moons ago. Now, it is an old story.

His anger, however, is not. He longs to protest at being put onto the same level as Willow Schnee. _Protected in her little mansion, what the fuck does she have to worry about? How could she ever_ need _to drink to-_

He doesn’t allow these thoughts to emerge, however. For that, he is grateful; after a second of thought, shame floods his heart. The thought of being trapped in marriage to Jacques Schnee, of all people- of her father’s legacy being tarnished by her husband’s cruelty- of her children being so desperate to flee they would sell their souls to the military or face monsters without hesitation-

Weiss’ eyes glisten in the white, unnatural lighting illuminating the mess hall. Qrow’s heart seizes. He does not know what Weiss sees when she looks at Qrow. He doesn’t know if he wants to, either.

There is nothing left to say. He stands shakily, picking up his tray so he may drop it off in a rack by the door. Before he leaves, however, he turns to Weiss, murmuring, “Thanks, kid. You… your mom’s probably proud to have a kid like you.”

Her face twists. It is a small moment, but for just that heartbeat, his body doesn’t ache as much anymore.

With that newfound energy, he strides down to the medical ward, slipping into Ruby’s room. Although it is still early evening, Ruby is already fast asleep, the girl’s colouring and Aura levels already far better than they had been the last time he had seen her.

He does not stay long. He kisses her forehead. He whispers, “I love you, kiddo. Always,” into her hair, and then, he is gone. He has seen all he needs to see. Now, all she needs is to get better- to see _him_ get better-

_I’ve gotta make sure my Semblance never hurts her again._

For that, however, there is only one thing he can do, if it is not to drink.

Clover does not hesitate to welcome the corvid back into his quarters. It becomes routine far too easily; Qrow flies over to his window, pecking until the man lets him in. Without hesitation, Clover takes Qrow’s avian form into his arms and carries him around as he finishes up his own tasks, his strong, burly arms holding Qrow with a tenderness that cannot be described.

Qrow does not focus upon that gentleness; at least, he tells himself he does not. Instead, his conscious mind fixates upon Clover’s Aura, upon this Semblance that can mask him like nothing else can. Clover radiates his Semblance so often that it hardly seems controlled. _He’s never had a need to,_ Qrow realizes upon the third day of observing this phenomenon with awe. _Why bother turning it off if it only ever helps him?_

The very thought brings bile up into his throat, sour jealousy and frustration burning his esophagus. He swallows it down every time, taking that as a cue to focus on burying his beak into warm skin, refilling his hollow chest with the heat that he can never seem to generate on his own as of late. He tries his best to banish the thought, the burning, clear knowledge that Clover’s heat would be much easier to transmit through skin-to-skin contact- that his warmth could fill Qrow up much faster if Qrow simply gave himself up to Clover. It is not like he hasn’t done it countless times already, after all.

And yet, he can’t. He cannot forget Clover’s eyes watching him leave that morning after his relapse. He cannot forget just how much Clover’s eyes had wanted Qrow to _stay._

So, he continues to visit, to absorb, to warm up before flying away. Clover just wants his presence, Qrow tells himself. There’s nothing more to it. Qrow is doing Clover a favor- after all, Clover is clearly smitten with this strange bird he has found, and his desires for Qrow as a man are clear as day. Qrow is merely offering to fulfill those desires in exchange for some benefits.

 _It’s a transaction,_ he repeats in his mind each time he heads to Clover’s quarters. _It’s just at transaction._

…it is not true, and he knows it.

And after a week of this, when Ruby is finally released from the hospital and Qrow’s Semblance causes no further accidents, he goes to visit Clover in his human form. Clover’s eyes light up, a sense of relief pervading every heartbeat as he holds out his hand, inviting the elder in.

Qrow takes that hand that night. It’s just to thank him for helping Qrow out during Ruby’s recovery, he says when Clover asks of the occasion. Clover does not understand what he means- they have barely spoken during this past week while Ruby has been ill- but Qrow understands, and that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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